


Who’s the Daddy?

by hit_the_books



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artificial Insemination, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, Giving Birth, Hannibal Lecter Needs To Use His Words, Hannibal Lecter Plots and Schemes, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Jealous Hannibal Lecter, Kid Fic, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Not Beta Read, Omega Will Graham, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent Will Graham, Pining, Pregnant Will Graham, Slow Burn, Will Goes on Dates with Other People, Will Is Never Married to Molly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29907564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hit_the_books/pseuds/hit_the_books
Summary: Will Graham wants to start a family. As an unmated omega, the normal choice would be go and find himself a mate and live happily ever after. But Will can’t bring himself to become tied down with some alpha or beta who doesn’t understand the things that go bump inside his head.After Bev suggests Will just finds a sperm donor on a website dedicated to helping potential parents find donors for free, Will decides to go for it—much to Hannibal Lecter’s dismay.Hannibal Lecter, perpetual bachelor and lonely serial killing cannibal, has realized he’s ready to start a family. And he’s also sure that Will would make an excellent mate (on many levels) if he could just find the right way to ask Will to be his mate.OR: The decimation of the Hobbs family leaves Will feeling like he finally wants to start his own family and Hannibal does his up most to be the donor Will deserves (even if he doesn't know it).OR: The Switch (2010) AU no one asked for.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 72





	Who’s the Daddy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole story is plotted out. I just need to finish writing it. Updates will be as and when.
> 
> SPOILERS BE HERE WITH A NOTE ON A TAG AND PLOT...  
> *  
> *  
> *  
> Other things you might want to consider: the dubious consent tag is here because of the fact that Hannibal ends up Will’s sperm donor without Will’s consent. If that icks you out, don't read. That whole tag is here because of the same plot device in the 2010 film The Switch, which this story follows loosely.
> 
> I haven't quite decided how dark Will may be by the end of the story, but he'll definitely be accepting of Hannibal's cannibalism and happy to raise a kid with him. If that also is not your cup of tea, adieu.  
> *  
> *  
> *  
> END SPOILERS...
> 
> I hope you enjoy the first chapter. See you in the comments.

Tacky blood sticks to Will Graham’s skin. He should probably wipe off at least the mess on his glasses, but he can’t bring himself to move as he sits in his rental. His shirt is stiffening and all he can smell is the coppery-iron of other people’s blood, and a note of rotten eggs that is purely Garret Jacob Hobbs’s scent. Will doesn’t understand how it managed to all go so very wrong. His heart is a sluggish drum in his chest, hardly keeping a beat as the adrenaline that had flooded him finally leaves him beached and dry.

He wishes he could have gone in the ambulance with Hannibal and the girl. But now he’s un-moored and wondering. The wife stumbling, falling, dead before Will reaches her. In, in, in. Feet pounding the stairs. A flash of steel. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. His mind just plays Hobbs slamming back into the kitchen counters and sliding down. Eyes already turning glassy and unfocused, but still trained on Will. And then the girl is in Will’s hands, a young beta, all sweetness and shock. Blood burbling out of her neck and onto the linoleum, life slipping between Will’s fingers, her own scent unable to push past the rottenness drowning them.

Hannibal is there, calm, collected. All alpha sureness. Somehow able to act as Will felt himself falling apart.

A knock sounds on the roof above Will and he looks up to see a local beta cop and Will finally remembers how to speak.

“Which hospital?” Will asks.

***

Will doesn’t feel clean. He spent an hour in the motel shower, long past when the water turned cold, but he still feels the drag of blood as his face stretches. His clothes feel all wrong, as if the clotted blood had felt right somehow. It’s crazy, but as he pads down the corridor towards the hospital room Abigail has been put up in, Will wonders if he should have just come straight to the hospital instead. Even though he would have looked like a murderer—though he does feel like one so at least his exterior would have reflected his interior.

He reaches the doorway to Abigail’s room and stops. He takes in a huge breath through his nose and gets a mix of the scent neutralizer Nutrascent and whiffs of the designations of those nearby. His own omegan scent is stifled by the scent blockers he wears whenever he’s on the job. Not that Jack Crawford has told him to come to the hospital, he should be filing the report he typed out back at the motel. Should be staying away, probably, but Will doesn’t want to. He can’t.

Drawing in another long breath, he catches the faint scent of Doctor Lecter under everything, his alpha scent—cloves and sandalwood—stronger than any other scent battling under the neutralizers. Will’s motel room still smelled of the good doctor when he had returned there and he’d found it comforting until he remembered what had happened that day, how different things were to the expectations Will had had that morning, eating the breakfast Hannibal had cooked to share with him.

Will follows his nose and steps into Abigail’s room, blanching at the tubes and wires crawling around her and into her. Will’s gaze takes in the sleeping form of Hannibal, face slack, hand holding Abigail’s. No hint of what he dreams and Will finds himself enjoying the sight for half a second before he sits down on the empty chair on the left side of Abigail’s bed.

The room is detached and clean, like any hospital room before a legion of well wishers appears (should they ever do so). Will wonders if there will be any flowers or balloons, any teddy bears or greetings cards. Any friends who will arrive because Abigail is alone now and has no one else to call upon for strength.

Whatever script people normally follow in situations approaching anything like this—and it’s so far removed from the everyday—Will hasn’t been let in on it. Distantly he’s aware that this isn’t normal, that he should be back with Jack’s team, and that even Hannibal shouldn’t be there. But he feels a draw, like this life between them is his responsibility now. Sure it might be because he’s just killed the girl’s father and he was nothing but useless as her mother finished bleeding out all over the porch. Or it might be because—

Will looks down his body, right hand coming to rest on his stomach, the muscle solid and warm under his plain khaki shirt. He hasn’t thought about families in a long time and today he just saw one torn apart from the inside out, the rotting flesh falling away and no longer able to sustain what goodness remained. Families are merely a concept to Will, all theoretical and alien, like a social theory in a textbook; never lived just seen through others’ eyes. Though Will saw the good and the bad that follows families around, knew which kids in school had had parents going through divorce, which kids had siblings who cared for them or wanted them dead.

Beau Graham was his father, but Will never thought of the two of them as a family. They were just two people trying to survive together who also happened to share genetics, and share meals together while one dragged the other halfway around the country and also taught the other how to fix diesel engines and how to fish. An alpha trying to provide as well as he could for the omega son he had been left to raise by himself. A son whose uncanny abilities to see inside the minds of others had gotten him into trouble more often than not, dragged him into fights at school, even before he presented as an omega. And then it just got worse, as not only did he upset people on the regular but he had to handle kicking the asses of alphas who thought he’d be an easy lay.

Beau and Will Graham left a trail of renovated boats and black eyes across the country, and now Will wonders what his father would have said to Will if Will had confessed that he wanted a family. He can almost imagine Beau saying:

“Son, you need t’ find a mate first.”

At the thought, Will’s eyes flick up and land on Hannibal. A tight feeling fills Will’s chest and he looks away. Finding someone to share his life with is a life goal that Will has thoroughly ignored forever and never intends on hitting, regardless of the co-occupants of this hospital room. He isn’t exactly going to shack up with some alpha to get his family and he’s sure, completely sure, that there must be in this day and age another way to start a family without handing yourself over to another human on a plate.

“Hungry?” asks a curious voice and Will looks up to the doorway as Hannibal stirs opposite him. Beverley Katz grins, coffee cups in one hand a brown paper bag filled with what smells like grease in the other.

Hannibal wakes, wrinkling his nose at the bag but accepts a coffee in between yawns. “Thank you, Ms. Katz,” he says, accent thicker than Will’s heard it so far.

“Thanks, Bev,” Will says as he accepts both a burrito and coffee.

Bev sits on a couch on the opposite side of the room. “So, is she going to be okay?” She pulls out her own burrito.

Will takes a sip of the coffee, black and sugary, before pulling back the foil from one end of his burrito. He looks to Hannibal, waiting for an answer.

“In time, she will hopefully be, yes,” Hannibal answers and takes a sip of coffee. He blanches, the expression barely there. “She lost a great deal of blood, but her surgery went well and her blood pressure has stabilized. We just need to wait and see.”

Will bites into his burrito, taking a small bite as he realizes just how hungry he is. This is the first thing he’s eaten since Hannibal brought breakfast and while it is a nice shredded chicken burrito, it’s nowhere near as tasty as the protein scramble Hannibal shared with him. He catches Hannibal's eye and it’s as if the good doctor is reading his thoughts, a smile quirking his lips.

Swallowing, Will licks his lips and says, “Maybe once you’ve had your coffee, you should head back to your hotel to wash up and change.” Will nods towards Hannibal’s clothes. Patches of blood have stained his button down, jacket and sweater. “Bev and I can keep an eye on things here until you get back.”

Hannibal’s tongue flicks out to touch his lip and then pulls quickly back in, like a snake tasting the air. “That does sound like an infinitely fantastic idea.”

***

Alone with Bev and Abigail, Will finds that even having just one person to talk with is taxing his limited abilities to make small talk. They could talk about the case, but it feels a little wrong to do it with Hobbs’s final victim unconscious beside them. Will waits for the beta to make the first real attempt at conversation.

“Are you going to head back to the lecture hall then?” Bev asks. It’s the first thing anyone’s said for almost an hour. Bev stows her work Blackberry and Will finds himself climbing out of the horror show in his head at least for the moment.

“Huh?” Will’s hand is resting on his stomach again.

“Are you going back to lecturing?”

Will licks his lips and nods. “I think so. We caught Hobbs. And Boyle’s killer will never kill that way again—so they’ll be near impossible to find. Teaching is what I do.”

“But you can do this as well,” Bev pushes, “we wouldn’t have caught up with Hobbs without you.”

“I really don’t want to talk about this here,” Will pleads, hand rubbing at his stomach.

“Is there something else you wanna talk about?” Bev queries.

Will frowns and follows her gaze from across the room to the hand on his stomach. “Uhhhh...”

“I know that look.” Bev smiles. “My sister had that same look right before...” she trails off.

 _Oh, it’s that kind of game_ , Will thinks. _Fine, I’ll play._ “Right before what?”

“Oh, you know, she got that look right before...”

“Seriously, you’re going to draw this out? Make me beg for the nugget of life wisdom, hard won, that you’re holding onto?”

“Why yes, Will Graham, that is exactly what I am going to do,” Bev says with a grin.

Will, despite himself, chuckles, the emotions of the day leaving him feeling on the precipice of hysterical. “What is this look? When does one get _this_ look?”

“Well, that look and your hand? Someone’s getting broody, huh?”

Hearing it out loud makes Will’s ears turn pink. “Perhaps.”

“No need to play coy with me Will. Death _is_ a heady thing.”

Will gives her a sharp look and Bev holds up a placating hand. Will huffs out a breath. “No need to go all Freudian on me, Bev. This is not a case of Eros kicking into gear because of witnessing someone’s death drive up close and personal.”

“Uh huh.”

“Just tell me about your sister, please?”

Bev’s grin comes back. “Well, my sister got broody and decided to have a baby. So she did.”

“She just went and had a baby? You need a mate for that to work. And I know people don’t know much about my lack of social life, but I can assure you Bev, I really don’t have some mate hidden in Wolf Trap. Just seven dogs.”

“Seven?”

“Your sister?”

“Right. Well, my sister didn’t have a mate and she didn’t want to head out and snag herself one either.”

“Perpetual bachelor and bachelorette-hood does have its draw. I can see why she wouldn’t want to find herself some alpha or beta.” Will sighs. “I know I don’t.”

Bev smirks. “Right. Well she went and found herself a fertility specialist and... a sperm donor. And had a baby without getting the alpha donor involved in raising her kid.”

“Did she... ever meet them?”

Bev nodded. “Yeah, she didn’t want the donation to be anonymous. Wanted to know if the guy was a good match for real. They met. We had a little ‘party’,” Bev does air quotes on “party”, “and nine and a bit months later she had a healthy baby girl.”

Will’s eyes narrow as he considers the word party. “What do you mean by ‘party’?”

“We had an insemination party. Though the actual insemination happened at a clinic the next day. But donating? That happened at the party.”

 _A baby without all the emotional attachments beside the child themselves?_ Will mulls the idea over. It sounds appealing. It sounds like just the kind of solution he wants, but he isn’t completely sure—though fast warming to the idea.

“Thanks, Bev.” Will smiles.

“Thank you for what?” Hannibal asks as he stands in the doorway to Abigail’s room.

“Just some advice,” Bev replies, getting up from her seat. “Well, I need to go back to my room. Busy day tomorrow. See you later.”

Hannibal moves out of the way as Beverley leaves and then he looks to Will, a questioning look on his face.

Will shrugs. “Really, it was just some advice.” He yawns and looks to the couch that Beverley had been sat on. It looks like somewhere he can nap for a bit and not completely kill his back.

***

The clapping makes Will want to slice the throats of everyone in his lecture hall. It’s a thought that slams into him, driving the air from his lungs and forces him to not show the disgust he wants to push forward onto his face followed by waves of guilt. He tells them to stop and tries to regain some semblance of a lecture as he leads the class through the Minnesota Shrike case and how he found Hobbs.

Bony white antlers stare up at Will every time he closes his eyes to gather his thoughts to speak, the kill room of Hobbs inescapable now that Will’s seen it up close and personal. He doesn’t want to be talking about how he caught Hobbs, what he learned from working the case—from still working the case. And he has to push back the reminder that Jack Crawford thinks Abigail is somehow involved too. They’ll have their answers eventually, but it’ll be when she’s finally awake and not before.

What Will wants, more than anything as he drones on to his rapt students, is three fingers of whiskey and his bed. And then after some sleep he wants the chance to not think about work and instead think on the plan that’s slowly forming in his mind. The plan where he gets to have a family without the trouble of finding a mate.

There’s a presence behind him, even though no one’s there. The weight of Hobbs’s mind weighing on his own, curling around him still—at least he thinks it’s Hobbs. Will wants to step away from Hobbs but he’s finding it’s like trying to remove his entire body from molasses.

It’s automatic, the way his lecture goes on, he’s disassociating and he knows this on a subconscious level like he’s stood outside himself, watching himself provide the lecture. But he can’t bring himself to participate as a low feeling twists in his gut.

It’s not horror he feels when an image of Hobbs flashes across the projector again. Neither is it really guilt. That’s part of the problem too and he’s afraid to examine it any closer because of what it might tell him.

Half an hour later, he’s joined by Alana Bloom and Jack, and Will can feel a tension headache coming on.

“How was class?” Jack asks like one might about the weather, like he hasn’t walked into the room with an agenda which he clearly has.

Will huffs. “They applauded, it was inappropriate.”

“Review board begs to differ. You’re up for a commendation and they okayed active return to the field.” Jack nods, stance hopeful and apprehensive.

 _Oh_ , Will thinks, a faint smile forming and the part of him that doesn’t feel guilt, that doesn’t think that’s a problem is pleased.

Alana leans in. “Question is... do you want to go back in the field?”

The terms that follow leave Will bristling. He has to see a psychiatrist. Has to see Hannibal. He doesn’t care about Jack’s “beauty sleep”, he cares about the fact that they want someone poking around in his head. Will doesn’t even want to do that to himself because the idea of allowing someone else to glimpse his thoughts—even if it’s Hannibal (and shouldn’t he be sick of seeing the doctor’s face at this point after all the time they’ve spent at Abigail’s side together?)—is something that Will can’t tolerate.

He’s scared of what anyone might find. He needn’t have been when Hannibal near enough rubber stamps him on the spot when he goes to the alpha’s practice.

***

Hannibal can sense Will at his back, some feet away as he prowls the room in what has quickly become a ritual for them. Will ignores the rules of polite decorum and touches Hannibal’s things as if the two of them were friends or more. And Hannibal is well aware that his relationship with Will has already slipped far past professional, their shared evenings in Abigail’s room a testament to this and the simple fact that Will doesn’t feel the need to wear his glasses around Hannibal.

But it’s more than just Will not wearing his glasses that has caught Hannibal’s interest this session.

“You appear different,” Hannibal muses, turning to study him as Will’s fingers trail over the antler points of a stag cast in bronze, painted black. There’s a set to his shoulders that Hannibal had not expected to see after Will accepted Hannibal’s help to see him through “dark places”. Not that Hannibal is going to lead Will away from the darkness that Jack Crawford is accidentally cultivating—it is all too perfect. Has been perfect since the second he was in a room with Will for the first time.

He just needs to refine the course and keep it sliding towards a conclusion that would see the omega Hannibal’s—wholly and utterly, until death do they part. Hannibal breathes in deeply, capturing Will’s natural scent more easily now that the day has passed. He wonders if Will has purposefully forgotten to apply some more scent blockers before their appointment or not. Will Graham’s scent is a heady mix of honeysuckle and pine, separated and joined with the scents of motor oil and dog that always accompany him. Though still frustratingly tainted by the hint of some aftershave that most definitely has a ship on the bottle.

Their time together has become something that Hannibal treasures and looks forward to. Enjoying the blood that courses behind the cracks opening in Will’s shell—there’s just so much potential there. But the potential is more than just a killing partner, Hannibal is sure of that. The omega before him presents a wicked opportunity to elevate his kills from art to pure rapture. The drive to achieve this is, however, on equal footing with the one that is also saying to Hannibal every few seconds, in a light warm whisper: _A perfect mate._

Will hums and nods, back still to Hannibal, pert ass on display. Their conversation has already cycled through a reflection of their last appointment, and he knows Will wishes he’d killed Stammets. Still wishes it, but there’s a stronger desire circling around him, one that still sees him frequently sitting in Abigail’s hospital room for hours at a time. One that Hannibal is not privy to, yet. But today he plans to find out.

“Am I to remain guessing?” Hannibal asks in a put out voice.

Will turns and rubs nervously at the back of his neck, his hand slides for a moment down the side, rubbing instinctively at the scent gland there for reassurance. Of course the contact also summons more of his unearthly scent into the room and Hannibal works to calm himself, swallowing the drool that’s building up in his mouth because of the sheer temptation before him.

“I...” Will shrugs and looks towards the curtains that cover the office’s windows at this late hour. “I am thinking of starting a family.”

Hannibal’s face remains impassive. “I can imagine that the events involving Abigail have somewhat prompted this?”

“Perhaps they’re a catalyst. I know we’re her guardians now, but I feel like I want more.”

Hannibal steps slowly up beside Will, the distance perhaps a touch less than polite. “One normally needs a mate if one is to start a family.”

Will snorts. “I don’t exactly plan on doing this conventionally, Doctor Lecter.”

Hannibal adds the latest pronunciation of his name to the growing wing of his memory palace dedicated to all things Will Graham. “Then how do you plan on starting a family?”

“I’m going to find a sperm donor. I don’t plan on being tied down by some alpha or beta.”

 _Indeed,_ Hannibal thinks, wondering already how he might leverage the situation to his advantage. He can’t see how Will being a single parent will lend itself to the darkness trying to seep out of him—but worse still, intolerable almost, is the idea of Will carrying a child that isn’t Hannibal’s.

“Do you have a donor in mind?”

“I’m still working on that part.” Will looks at Hannibal, blue eyes open and honest. “I’ve signed up to a site. It’s like a dating site, only it’s for matching donors with people like me. It’s more my speed.”

Hannibal turns to Will and licks his lips, noticing how the omega tracks the movement. _Perhaps there is some hope for us yet._ “I could help you pay for access to a sperm bank.”

Will steps back a little at that. “Thank you, but no.”

Truly, the last thing Hannibal wants is to have Will fertilized by some other alpha or beta’s sperm. What he wants is to be the father, wants to keep Will round with his pups while they traverse the world together, meting out a particularly bloody vision upon it all. Hannibal’s not sure if serial murder and parenting go together, but he’s sure the two of could figure it out. Hannibal is sure that they can have it all, if they dare to dream.

“How do you plan to live life as a parent and profiler if you don’t have a mate at your side?” Hannibal asks casually, keeping back any judgment from his tone. He is certainly not a believer in traditional omega roles and he hopes Will doesn’t think that is what he is in support of.

Will looks over his shoulder, eyes showing that he knows Hannibal is not trying to be rude, just practical. “Who says I’ll stay working as a profiler? I might just go back to teaching. Regular hours. The daycare at Quantico isn’t that bad. I don’t have to be out in the field to earn a living.”

Hannibal feels a small sense of pride at knowing Will has gone this far into examining his options. It shows he’s serious and that it’s not just some passing obsession. “You have studied the daycare program at Quantico?”

“Mhmm. I’m going into this with my eyes wide open, Hannibal. It’s not like twenty or thirty years ago. The Bureau is fine with accommodating for working parents who don’t have someone to look after their pups at home. Even if that parent is an omega.” Will faces Hannibal and smiles. “I’m ready for this.”

“And you are sure that you can begin your own family, with no one at your side? No one else to guide you? No one to call at two in the morning when the baby is colicky and won’t stop crying?”

Will quirks his head to the side, gaze unfettered by the glasses that he normally wears around Uncle Jack. “I know I can. Planning for this, having something to aim for—I don’t know how to explain it. But it makes me feel like I have a goal. Purpose. It’s calming in its own way.”

“Of course,” Hannibal agrees, eyes fixed on Will’s face. Despite what the other man says, Hannibal can see past the posturing that is there. Yes, Will does definitely want to start his own family, but there is still something more beneath all of that. A lava hot desire that threatens to scorch all in its path and strip it down to ash white bones. And little of that heat has anything to do with attraction, but Hannibal can scent a whiff of it swirling in the air like a fine Merlot.

***

“How about this beta?” Beverley asks as she studies the screen in front of Will. They’re sat together in the break room at work, half-eaten sandwiches (ham on rye, a dash of mustard for Will) forgotten and Will doesn’t care because if he’s being honest with himself (something he doesn’t do all too often): his eyes are currently full of eye candy as it is.

They’re the only ones in the break room, taking a late lunch after Will helped them to identify a link between a victim and a suspect from a cold case the team had been asked to look into. Zeller and Price gave lunch with Bev and Will a rain check when they’d learned what they were planning to do during their brief downtime—or rather Jimmy had understood that Will didn’t need Brian supplying snarky commentary on single parents while Bev and Will looked for a donor. Jimmy had steered Brian away pretty quickly.

Will worries at this lower lip and remembers the advice his fertility specialist offered over the phone. “We should probably look at just alphas. Higher chance I’ll be able to conceive, as there is more likely to be a ‘higher compatibility with my omegan self’,” he explains.

Bev moves the cursor and heads on back to the search parameters, switching it to filter to only alphas. “Okay, well, oh! How about this guy?”

Leaning in closer, Will feels his glasses slip down his nose as he stares at one called “Matthew” and keeps staring. There is something about his thin face and high cheekbones that feels familiar to Will, though not his straight dark brown hair and green eyes which still manage to draw Will in.

“He’s a care worker... Irish-American... Studying night school... Over six foot one... Parents are an alpha and an omega... No worrying medical history... Believes anyone should be able to start a family and that’s why he’s on this site, apparently.”

“Add him to the short list,” Will says, tearing his eyes away from the screen. He picks up his sandwich and tries to think of who Matthew reminds him of, but comes up blank.

“Okay... and how about ‘Anthony’ here?” Bev asks, picking up her own abandoned sandwich. “Medievalist and Renaissance scholar... English... Studying post-grad at Princeton... Similarly wants to help couples and individuals looking to start a family. What do you think?”

Will swallows his mouthful of sandwich and studies the figure in the photo. There’s a familiarity here as well, but this time Will feels like he’s staring into some bizarre alternate reality and that Anthony is some kind of mirror version of himself. One who’s academically successful and likely a million times more “upper crust”. It’s kind of weird and Will wonders if it would be considered narcissistic to add Anthony to his shortlist as well.

“Put him on the list,” Will finally decides.

“Alrighty,” Bev says and clicks on add. She scrolls down the page some more and then stops. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Frowning, Will looks to where the mouse pointer has paused. “Is that... Frederick Chilton?”

“I think so.”

“ _The_ Frederick Chilton who is in charge of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane?”

Bev snorts. “The one and only.”

Will stares at the screen, desire near absent but a level of curiosity bubbling up somewhere in the back of his thoughts. “I don’t have to commit,” Will says, interest piqued, “just because I ask for a meeting over coffee.”

“You’re seriously not considering Chilton, are you?” Bev asks, appalled.

“I am.”

“Fine, I’ll add him to your list.”

The addition of Chilton makes Will hit his limit of potential donors. Until he discounts any of the others, he won’t be able to start any further conversations. Bev pushes the laptop to Will and picks up her sandwich as Will sends the same message, copy-pasted, to each of them. It’s simple, to the point, no unnecessary flourishes:

_*_

_Hey there,_

_I’m an omega looking for a sperm donor. Would you be interested in getting coffee some time?_

_Thanks,_

_Will_

_*_

Hitting send and then logging out, Will lets out a long breath, hoping that his direct approach will work better than dancing around the issue of what he really wants. _It’s not as if the site’s for hooking up,_ Will justifies to himself as he picks up the remains of his sandwich and takes a bite. _The site is about getting gametes to people who need them._ Though no amount of rationalizing can make Will feel less anxious about the fact that he still just messaged three random strangers to demonstrate that he’s interested in having their babies.

Will finishes his sandwich and the realization just sort of opens up inside of him: he’s taken the first steps to building his family.

“You okay?” Bev asks.

“It’s just all become a bit more real, I suppose,” Will says quietly, Louisianan accent slipping in a little.

Bev smiles and slowly reaches out her hand to place it on Will’s back, the touch meant to be reassuring and it is to some extent. “I think I’d be more concerned if you weren’t at least freaking out a little at all this. So don’t sweat it, Graham. If anything the past few weeks have shown me, you’ve got what it takes to be an awesome mom.”

Nodding, Will sinks back into the gentle press of Bev’s hand. He can’t recall the last time he had managed to develop a friendship as quickly as he had with Beverley, in fact he couldn’t remember a single one of his college or high school friendships being this close. And Bev wasn’t the only one—Hannibal has been attentive outside of their sessions, checking in on Will and how things were progressing. Even Alana has been checking in on Will about himself and not just everything to do with the Hobbs case. Will has never had so many people care about it at the same time before. The last person to care about him at all was his alpha father and Beau Graham was long since buried.

“Thanks, Bev. Means a lot to hear you say that.” Will gives her a real smile and looks at his watch. “We better get back to those files.”

“Ugh, yes.”

***

Afternoon sunlight filters through the windows, shrouding the bedroom in a warming glow. Sifting through the things he keeps in the closet in the upstairs bedroom, Will is trying to find a particular set of fishing hooks he had stored in a box up there some time ago. While he does try to keep his lure making equipment downstairs at his workbench, sometimes he has too much there. The closet isn’t often opened and is filled with all manner of flotsam from Will’s life.

He’s only making lures because the first responses to his message have come through and he’s nervous about replying. So he’s throwing himself into making some more lures, but the lures must have a _particular_ set of hooks and those hooks are here, somewhere. It’s a Saturday, in-between cases, and he has time to fret over hooks and not replying to the potential father of his child.

There are suits in the closet, all in dry cleaners’ bags, that Will hasn’t worn in years. A black one for funerals, a simple gray charcoal one for weddings (and he has been to far more funerals in his life than weddings) and a bland navy one (not midnight blue levels of navy) that he bought for job interviews. They all still fit, but the suits are off the rack and plain. The exact opposite of everything Will has so far observed Hannibal’s wardrobe to be. He wonders for a second just what Hannibal would make of him in such pedestrian suits with equally pedestrian ties and shirts, and decides that Hannibal would silently judge or make a comment about introducing him to a tailor, depending on his mood.

But why care what Hannibal thinks at all? Why even consider what the alpha might think of Will dressed differently to how he does everyday? Will decides not to poke too closely at that and instead continues pulling, pushing and prodding at the collected items of his life that he doesn’t put on display. Doesn’t find comfort in and instead just holds onto because a part of him can’t find the way to be rid of them.

Will pulls at an old tea box, the paint on the metal case faded and scratched, thinking he might have put the hooks inside the tin case. He flips the lid open and instead finds instead a series of old photos and Polaroids. Will doesn’t remember having the photos, but he finds himself suddenly sitting on the floor of his disused bedroom and pulling the photos out of the tin. He realizes the photos must be some of Beau’s things he decided to hold onto after his father’s death and forgot about.

“Oh,” Will says gently as his eyes take in the first photo. It’s a little faded and creased, worn as if it has been held many times. It’s a shot of a baby just managing to sit up beside a young woman with long dark curling hair. The baby has equally unruly, but short, hair. They’re on a red and green picnic blanket, shaded by a willow tree, grass surrounding them. _My mother,_ Will thinks absently, a finger gently tracing over her features. He looks at what must be him as a baby, little dungarees and t-shirt on, bare feet. He’s smiling and so is his mother. The photo must have been taken by his father and as Will eyes the picnic basket in shot, he can’t quite believe that there was a moment in his childhood that was as mundane and wholesome as the one captured in this photograph.

 _What advice would she have given me?_ Will ponders as he flips the photo to see if anyone wrote where and when it was. It reads “City Park, NOLA, May 7, 1980”—Will would have been maybe 10 months old at the time. He flips the photo back. His mother’s face is alien to him, though as he gazes upon it now, he finds himself working to memorize it, to have something to hold onto when he dares imagine his past.

For a moment he imagines what it might have been like to have grown up in a family that felt like a family, for his mother not to have died when he was young. If he would have made the choices he had so far made in his life—joining the police, becoming a detective and profiler, failing at being a detective, joining the FBI as a teacher—or if he would still have wound up here with a head full of nightmares and thoughts he wants to bury but can’t find the shovel to do so. _Was I destined to be some kind of misfit? Was it fate that my thoughts would never really be my own? That my thoughts would be edged in blood?_ Will sighs and finds himself unable to look at the rest of the photos in his hand.

Setting the photos back inside the tin he’d found, Will sets it aside and begins looking through the closet again. Minutes later, between two old college books and a high school yearbook that Will doesn’t remember getting (and no, he is not going to look inside to see if anyone signed it), he finds a glass jar filled with the hooks he’s looking for.

Will stands and turns to find Winston watching him from the doorway, the dog having obviously grown curious as to where Will had wandered off to. Closing the closet door, Will pads over to Winston and pats his head with his free hand.

“Sorry for taking so long, I was looking for these,” Will says, shaking the jar of hooks at Winston. The dog snorts and turns, leading the way back downstairs.

Will follows and sets the jar down at his work bench before checking in on his pack. He lets them out and fills their water bowls in the kitchen as they do their business. Buying himself more time before he has to reply to the messages waiting for him on the donor site. There are half a dozen chores he could do before replying, before dragging things out and taking the next step in his plans. But once the dogs are happy, Will plans to work on the lure he wants to make and then, _then,_ he’ll start replying.

Not before the dogs and the lure, but then he will reply.

Will finishes with the bowls and calls the dogs back in. He settles down at this work bench and clamps the hook before picking up the blue feather he wants to add with a needle and thread. He begins to wind the thread and the image of unread email alerts melts away to the image of his mother smiling in May sunshine.

***

“Hannibal, again, this looks and smells superb,” Jack compliments, fingers delicately holding the stem of his wine glass. A bright red sauvignon blanc accompanying the main course of their meal.

The main course is a finely seasoned heart stuffed with sausage that sits on their plates, accompanied with delicately chopped and cooked root vegetables placed around it. The sauce has blood at its base. Again, Jack has failed to bring his wife to Hannibal’s table, but Hannibal is at peace with this as it means that the evening can center on items of conversation that he wishes to divulge in that would look strange to someone outside of Jack and Hannibal.

“Thank you for the flattery,” Hannibal replies genially. “I note again that we have yet to be graced by your wife.”

Jack smiles fondly to himself. “Sometimes I wonder who’s the busier breadwinner in our home.”

“You said before that she works at the UN?”

Jack nods and takes a sip of wine. “She does. I lucked out with her, Hannibal believe me. She’s a fierce and intelligent woman.”

“Is she one of the highest ranking omegas working for the United States’ UN contingency?” Hannibal breathes in the scent of his wine, ignoring the smell of food and Jack’s alphaness that curls towards it.

“Yes she is.” Jack positively beams.

“So unusual to be an omega, even today, and well, forgive me if I’m overstepping Jack, but to not have raised a child or two.”

Nodding, Jack sets down his glass and picks up his knife and fork. “We never had the time for children.”

“Of course.”

They turn to their meal and Hannibal says nothing more on Jack’s childless marriage, but he has set the stage for the conversation he really wishes to have this evening.

“How is Abigail?” Jack queries.

“She hasn’t woken yet, but the signs are still good that she shall,” Hannibal says in a warm voice. He knows Jack’s suspicions about the girl, but he doesn’t plan on feeding them.

“Good,” Jack replies simply. “How is Will?”

It’s been three days since their last session, but Hannibal is glad he now has the opportunity to discuss what he really wants to talk about. “Will is good, all things considered of course.”

“Of course.”

“But...”

“Is something wrong?” Jack asks, expression quickly turning to one of concern.

Pursing his lips, fork poised over his plate, Hannibal lets out a long sigh. “Will has mentioned something to me, about his future, and I... He is not officially my patient, you understand, but it is quite a private matter all the same. Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything.”

“Hannibal, you can’t just dangle something like that and not follow through!” Jack gripes. “Or has Will not told you that I need my ‘beauty sleep’.”

 _I have him,_ Hannibal thinks. “It seems that recent events have Will questioning what he wishes to do with himself, his future. He is looking to become a parent.”

“He just got guardianship of Abigail,” Jack points out.

“I mean he is thinking of starting a family, of having a baby.”

Jack looks nonplussed. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend or a boyfriend. Or anyone.”

For a second, Hannibal feels bad on Will’s behalf because the poor boy does have some people in his life, he just doesn’t realize who are the right ones just yet.

“As has been pointed out to me, in this day and age, one does not need more than just sperm to make this happen.”

Brow creasing, Jack looks confused for a second and then says, “He’s using a sperm donor?”

Hannibal cuts into the artfully sliced heart on his plate. “That is his plan, yes.”

“How can he afford that?” Jack asks.

“He plans on using a site that helps people seeking donors to connect with donors. No bank health screening or the like involved.”

“What about his job? Being a single parent is no easy task.” Jack’s frown deepens as he loosely turns his attention back to his food. “How ever will this work?”

“Will seems to think it shall work. He’s certainly keen to keep teaching at least.”

“Oh.” Jack lapses into silence and the two of them turn their attention back to their food for the moment.

Hannibal is pleased that Jack isn’t calling the whole thing a bad idea based on Will’s psychological health. Though if Hannibal is being truthful with himself, which he _always_ is, he suspects Will is going to make a far more suitable parent than any that have wandered through his office over the years. He can tell that Will’s instincts as a parent will be strong and unwavering—his draw to Abigail is more than just guilt. The desire to fulfill his omegan instincts to some degree are there, he’s just never allowed himself to contemplate such things before.

Much like the dark temptations that circle around his core—Will just hasn’t given himself the opportunity to cultivate ways and means of living that serve his true nature.

Jack takes another sip of wine and then clears his throat before asking, “What did you say when he told you?”

“ _He_ said that having a ‘purpose’, of having some ‘goal’ was ‘calming in some way’. I must say, I can see how it might. He’s never been one to chase career goals, but he surely, like all of us, wants some things out of life.” Hannibal puts a bite of heart and parsnip in his mouth and chews languidly.

“I suppose I’ve never considered thinking of Will beyond the roles he’s taken on at the bureau,” Jack admits.

“There is more to Will than the tricks he does for you, that I am certain.”

“Are those Will’s words or yours?” Jack asks, voice turning somber and lightly angry.

“Mine. I know you don’t have anyone else like him in your stable, Jack, but he is more than just a profiler with an uncanny empathy disorder.”

Jack sighs and nods, interest returning to his food. “Rationally I know this.”

“People are not tools,” Hannibal says. And while not a lie, Hannibal will fully acknowledge that that doesn’t mean he avoids treating them as such.

“I wonder what the child will be called?” Jack says, ignoring Hannibal’s previous remark.

“Perhaps we could start a pool once Will is pregnant,” Hannibal jokes. That gets a smile from Jack and their meal returns to safer subjects, such as ethical butchers and Hannibal’s days at John Hopkins.

***

Warmer than he has any right to be dressed in just his boxers and a t-shirt, Will looks up from the last of his dogs bounding out his front door. Will walks out of his house to find Alana stepping out of her car. Of course he should go and cover up, but he’s too shocked to see Alana here at his home.

“Morning,” Alana greets, petting Winston as Will tries to figure out why Alana could possibly be all the way out at Wolf Trap. The air outside is crisp with the hint of coming winter, but there’s still the smell of life’s last hurrah before the ice wrangles its way through the air. Moss and earth.

“I didn’t hear you drive up,” Will says in a light voice, though unable to keep out a hint of accusation.

Alana stands up straight and gives Will a large smile. “Hybrid. Good for stalking.”

Remembering that he’s still in nothing more than a t-shirt and boxers, Will says, “I’m compelled to go cover myself.”

Alana shrugs. “I have brothers.”

“I’ll put on a robe just the same. Do you want a cup of coffee? And more immediately why are you here?”

“Yes. And Abigail Hobbs woke up.”

The air is sucked from Will’s lungs. He takes a second to recover and then says accusingly, “You know how to bury the lede.”

Alana smirks and it feels wrong. “Want me to get you a cup of coffee?”

“No, I want to get my coat.”

“Let’s have a cup of coffee. Or tea. Maybe a nice soothing tea,” Alana suggests, heading to the porch.

The two of them amble inside and Will fails to find additional clothing. He directs Alana to all she needs to brew a cup of coffee, the bitter sweet aroma warming him as he sits at his meager dining table. He had been planning on starting the day easy, there was time before his first class at the academy. There were replies waiting for him in his inbox—replies that asked him to set a time and place for first drinks or a coffee. He had hoped to call Bev to ask if she knew anywhere good to go, Will’s dating game being nonexistent and he had no idea where it was good to get a casual anything with anyone. It was with a sinking sense of realization that Will fails to recall the last time he had gone out with someone casually.

Will jolts from his thoughts as the cordless handset on the table rings. It’s Crawford again, he knows that but he’s unsure he ever wants to answer because he knows that that way lies a new wave of accusations to smash against the reputation of the young woman he wants so desperately to protect. He wants to go and see Abigail, see how much of her is left and confirm that he has indeed saved a whole life. But it’s a life Jack Crawford is happy to tear into pieces when it’s clear to Will that Abigail isn’t the one who killed all those girls.

Alana seems to read the cycle of thoughts churning in Will’s head and starts in on Will not being able to be everything for Abigail.

“I know you’re feeling... maternal at the moment Will, but she’s not your daughter.”

“I need to see her.”

“I know, but you need to do it on the terms that are right for you and her, not just Jack. Not just...”

“What’s Bev told you?”

“Actually, it was Jack.”

Will sniffs, eyes drawn to the blackness in his mug. “So Hannibal.”

“I didn’t take you for the maternal type,” Alana admits.

Will’s cell begins to ring and vibrate again and he ignores it. “Wow, thanks. I have layers—hopes and dreams and all those kinds of normal things.”

“I just... I’ve never known you to date since we’ve known each other. And—”

“Just because I haven’t thrown myself at some beta or alpha doesn’t mean that I’m not interested in starting my own family.”

“But Jack said you’re thinking of raising the baby on your own.”

“There are plenty of happy, single parent families out there, Alana.” Will huffs and crosses his arms across his chest like he’s trying to hug himself. He’s not completely averse to the idea of finding a mate, he just doesn’t believe he’ll ever find one that he’ll like or will like all his own oddities and the thoughts that keep themselves on the edges, sometimes barreling in without warning.

“I’m not very good at this,” Alana says.

“Good at what? Giving friendly advice or somehow not invalidating another person’s life choices,” Will snaps.

Alana winces and Will feels guilty for the briefest of moments before unwrapping his arms in favor of picking up his coffee mug.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to... to disparage the notion of you becoming a mother,” Alana says in a voice higher than usual filled with alpha appeasement.

The air is filled with Alana’s alphaean scent all of a sudden and Will feels himself warm a little at that, nose filled with vanilla and cherries. He huffs out a breath trying to clear his mind of the pheromones clawing at him.

“How about, rather than coming out criticizing what I’m trying to do, you help me? Bev’s being nice about it. Why can’t you? You say you’re my friend, but you’re not exactly acting like it right now.”

Nodding, Alana picks up her own mug. “You’re right. Okay, I can do that.”

The landline starts to ring again and Will cringes back from the handset.

“And beginning as a friend right now, I’m first going to tell you to answer the phone and say your piece with Jack, but understand that he’s probably going to ignore any and all wishes you might have in regards to Abigail Hobbs.”

Will’s shoulders slowly ease back and he offers Alana an accepting smile. “I figured as much. He’s a stubborn man.”

“That he is. Also, what you do with your body, what you want in life? That’s none of Jack’s business, understand that too.”

Will slides both phones towards him, placing them either side of his mug, ready for the next ring. “Right.”

“And if you don’t make me a godmother, I am going to be extremely disappointed,” Alana adds and Will looks up at her face then. Her eyes are big and filled with the hint of tears. There’s a level of attraction simmering between them, always has been, and maybe Alana is disappointed that Will isn’t considering her as a potential donor. But he just can’t see himself having something like that with her.

Dating, maybe? Fucking, perhaps? Having a kid together? Will shakes his head as his cell starts to ring again and he finally answers dear Uncle-gossipy-Jack.

***

Jack Crawford is stubborn in his convictions and Hannibal can’t wholly fault him for holding onto them. He understands the need to get his best profiler in the room with Abigail, and with Hannibal along for the ride as well. To use them to smoke out Jack’s prime surviving suspect. But all the same, Hannibal doesn’t want to see Abigail held for the crimes of her father, no matter whether or not she may have partaken in them. It’s not interesting for Abigail to slip into the clutches of the law as a convicted suspect. Not interesting at all. There’s too much potential to be wrought from a young woman baptized in blood, treated as both golden ticket, as he’s heard Will refer to her previously, and the favorite lamb always on the cusp of being taken to the chopping block and slaughtered.

Hannibal follows Jack through Quantico, moving from the offices that house the BAU and over to the academy proper. Face impassive, Hannibal shows none of the fascination that he feels as (per usual) being the fox in the hen house. It’s a dark satisfaction to stalk such halls and paths, to flit past the rooms where people are being taught to catch criminals such as himself—only they never will, not unless he permits it.

Reaching the lecture theater that Will is working in, Hannibal allows himself a small curling of his lips as Will talks of Cassie Boyle and the killer likely responsible. He feels a tingle at the base of his spine to have his work discussed so openly and thoroughly, to have Will _see_ his work.

“I believe the as-yet unidentified caller was our CopyCat Killer,” Will summarizes to the class of agents in training.

The lecture ends and Hannibal waits alongside Jack for the class to begin filtering out. He takes in the faces of all those who pass the pair of them to leave, memorizing each in case another agent in training is to ever come calling to his office. Hannibal feels pleased for having such an opportunity. Forewarned is forearmed and so on.

 _Ah, but dear Uncle Jack, how will you now play Will? How will we convince him to move in step with your plans, hm?_ Hannibal considers as Will finishes filing away his notes and finally spots the two of them standing in the doorway.

Jack takes that as his cue to walk over and Hannibal follows. The closer they get, the more Hannibal can scent of Will over the lingering mural of trainees. He’s wearing a scent blocker—a sensible choice when teaching in a room mostly filled with fertile alphas and a smattering of betas and omegas—but Hannibal still picks up the sweet honeysuckle and hint of pine that is so very much Will.

“Jack,” Will greets. “Hannibal,” he adds with a note of surprise in his voice.

“Will, I need you and Hannibal to go talk with Abigail Hobbs. Today.” Jack touches at a paperweight on the desk. His fingers sliding over the cut crystal.

Will lets out a resigned sigh, pressing his glasses against the bridge of his nose before picking up his satchel. “I expected as much.”

“Do you want me to drive?” Hannibal asks, looking forward to being enveloped further in Will.

The suggestion causes Will to frown and he looks to Jack as if to ask if this is okay, but Jack chooses not to acknowledge the wordless question.

Will huffs out a breath and motions towards the way out. “After you, then.”

Jack walks the two of them as far as the building reception and then Hannibal leads the way to his car in the lot, having handed over his visitor pass. They reach Hannibal’s Bentley and he unlocks the vehicle, resisting the temptation to hold Will’s door open for him. He’s positive that the act would not go down well with the fierce omega.

Getting into the car in silence, it’s not until Hannibal has left Quantico that Will seems to crawl out from under whatever weight has settled over him. Hannibal feels he has a good idea what weight that might be, but leaves his thoughts unsaid for now.

“Thank you for driving,” Will says, more out of social expectation than what appears to be sincerity.

Hannibal casts a quick sidelong glance at Will before focusing his attention on the road once more. “It is my pleasure, Will.”

He glances back over at the younger man as they approach the tail end of traffic. A blush prettily creeps up Will’s cheeks, but he makes no further response. Stopping, Hannibal applies the handbrake and steals another glance at Will.

“You believe Abigail is still innocent?” Hannibal prompts.

“I don’t think she killed those girls,” Will snaps back, bristling. Hannibal admits to himself that he’s unsure (for the moment) on Abigail’s full innocence, but he is reasonably certain that she was involved in some way. _Still, keeping her secret under wraps would be preferred,_ Hannibal muses, taking off the brake and pulling away as traffic begins to move again.

Reaching the interstate, Hannibal puts on some music, and Vivaldi begins to quietly play over the speakers. Hannibal senses that Will doesn’t wish to talk about Abigail or much else for that matter. Hannibal would like to talk, but it’s still early days with dear Will, and he wants to stay in the omega’s good graces for as long as possible. Though he hopes to discuss his family planning during their next session, it’s not the best thing to hoist up between them during the near two hour drive to the psychiatric facility Abigail is being treated at.

“Will, I don’t believe you’ve told me how many dogs you have,” Hannibal says, apropos of nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Will turning to face him, leveling a steady disbelieving gaze.

“I don’t _believe_ I’ve discussed my pack with you before.”

“Well, why not now?”

He can feel Will’s eyes burning into him.

“Fine. And I want it noted that you asked for this... Okay, so there’s Buster, a Jack Russell Terrier, then there’s Max, a Border Collie. Zoe is... I don’t know what, but she’s a good girl, and Ellie who’s part Bichon Frisé. Then there’s—wait for it—Jack, who’s a pale haired German Shepherd,” Will chuckles, fondness creeping in, “Harley, who is I think part Molosser. And finally, the newest member of our pack, Winston, who’s got a little bit of Shepherd and Retriever at least.”

“That’s seven dogs, Will,” Hannibal says in a sincerely surprised voice.

“Yes it is.”

“And you manage to feed them all?”

Will laughs again and Hannibal decides that he likes the sound of Will laughing. A part of his heart opens up to that sound, unfurling itself, long grown small with disuse. It’s a strange feeling to suddenly have lifting him up and Hannibal quietly traps it, afraid of how much further it might just go without securing Will as his.

“Yes, I do. I actually make their food myself.”

“Profiler, lecturer, fisherman, mechanic, chef to dogs—such talents,” Hannibal teases.

Wills snorts. “I don’t trust store bought food. Too much risk of it being contaminated.”

“Duly noted,” Hannibal says. _Yes, duly noted indeed._

***

Abigail’s room at the psychiatric facility is large and empty. Hollow. Will dislikes the very fabric of the space, like it’s trying to find a way to ensnare him and hold on. Just as Freddie clearly thinks a place like it should when it comes to Will.

“Why don’t we have a walk?” Hannibal suggests gently.

Will snaps out of the seething fury that Freddie Lounds’ presence had stoked inside of him. He says nothing as they wait outside Abigail’s room for her to get dressed, mind suddenly calm for the moment. Hannibal is equally silent, but Will can sense that the good doctor wants to say something.

“What is it?” Will asks.

“That article, Ms. Lounds wrote about you,” Hannibal starts.

“What about it?”

“You shouldn’t hold much stock by it,” Hannibal suggests.

“Do you have an article about you, calling you all sorts of things, that’s getting thousands of hits a day?” Will shifts his weight. “No, don’t answer that. The answer is the only other places your name publicly appears are the papers you’ve authored, your business listing, and the trustees list for the Baltimore Philharmonic.”

He feels Hannibal look over at him.

“It’s fine, Hannibal,” Will sighs. “I just... I don’t like the spotlight.”

The door to Abigail’s room creaks open. “Where are we going?” Abigail asks, voice hesitant.

“I believe I saw a splendid sun lounge on our way to your room. On the first floor,” Hannibal says, turning to Abigail as Will does the same.

Will offers Abigail a smile. “Think you can manage it?”

“Okay,” Abigail says, the accusatory voice she had fixed Will with in her room, now gone. Instead she is flat and waif-like. Hannibal and Will both offer Abigail an arm each and she accepts their help without protest.

Once in the sun lounge, Will looks over the gray space, the late fall sun doing little to help it live up to its name. Attempts at gardening gather at the sides and pretend at being green, but the plants are a facsimile of life—Will can see Abigail darting her eyes around the space, clearly unsure of what to make of everything. She sits on a small iron and wood garden bench, looking like a balloon that is slowly leaking air as Hannibal and Will loom like great weights driving reality back into her.

They talk about that day, at least for a while. Will smells the rising scent of disgust and distress that curls around Abigail, quickly drowning her light beta scent. It’s almost enough to drown out the earthy greens that lurk within the lounge. Will doesn’t sense any of Jack’s suspicions being fulfilled with any word of hers and Hannibal gives no sign of being suspicious of Abigail either.

“He was loving right up until the second he wasn’t,” Abigail nearly sobs. Her words are falling faster now.

Will almost wants to shake Abigail and say there’s nothing wrong with her and that it was all her father. That there’s more wrong with Will than there ever will be with her. Her sadness and fear make him want to curl his arms around her and protect her from the remaining horrors of the world.

But when the questions turn from Abigail to Will, to him killing her father, Will has the fleeting consideration that his desire to protect Abigail, to hold her is more than just his omegan instincts and that it is the ghost of Hobbs that’s living like a thorn deep inside of him that makes him want to protect her. As he sits beside Abigail, her meager body heat bleeding into his own, Will resists the urge to hold her as they speak of nightmares.

“I’m going to be messed up, aren’t I? I’m worried about nightmares,” Abigail confesses.

Hannibal steps closer to the two of them. “We’ll help you with the nightmares.

“There’s no such thing as getting used to what you experienced. It bothers me a lot... I worry about nightmares, too,” Will says gently.

“So, killing somebody, even if you have to do it... it feels that bad?” Abigail questions

Instead of holding Abigail as her fears brush against his own, he does what any parent that wants to protect a child from the demands of reality does, he lies.

“It’s the ugliest thing in the world,” Will almost whispers. He ignores the knowing look that Hannibal flashes his way that underscores the lie inside Will’s words.

But regardless of Will’s attempts to not push Abigail, but to keep her safe from herself and the shadow of Hobbs, it’s still her that finally says:

“I want to go home.”

If five words have ever hurt Will badly before now, he can’t remember. His heart aches at the wavering request, perhaps because the thorn of Hobbs is slipping inside of it, waiting to poison his blood.

But once Hannibal and Will are ready to leave, Will considers that returning to the Hobbs’s home will help him to finally exorcise the spirit that’s haunting him. To drain the poison festering away. That brief moment of calm is quickly snatched away as they stand outside the facility and Freddie Lounds greets them.

Will can feel the burn of Hannibal’s amusement at his back as he finishes giving Ms. Lounds a piece of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments appreciated.
> 
> If you wanna hang, find me on Twitter at [hitthebookspost](https://twitter.com/hitthebookspost).


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